Poetry Journal [2]

you’ll never be a flower
Meah Enya Brooks

sometimes, when the curtains aren’t closed,
you hear me from upstairs. I’m baking in
that floral apron. you’re playing piano in our
bedroom. the home smells of maple syrup

and rosemary.

we’re singing the same song at the same time
without knowing it, we’ll never know that
we do it, and we do it so often. one of us is never
there to see how much we share, our souls

are joined at the hip. but then the forefingers
and thumbs of our ideals pull the curtains
closed, and the house smells of darkness

and burning.

I turn around, and you’re there, we’re in the
same room. I didn’t hear you come downstairs.
the flowers on my apron are scattered, sparse.
I want to water them to bring them back to life,

but they were never living, or dying, and you
look at me. you’ve been looking at me for a
while now. I haven’t been paying attention,
I’ve been staring at my botanical chest. you

pick something up, something familiar,
something closed, something you’ve always
owned. you then propel it forward, at
something else you own. when I open my

eyes, they sting. a line of redness sinks into
one of them, cutting my sight, and I see
you through it, a translucent hazard. I see
our anger, shared, and feel it trickling down

my skin like a devil’s tear, like I’m spilling
from the inside out. the piano upstairs
wherever I am plays itself, staccato notes,
you’re saying something loudly, too

loudly for me to hear, so I listen to the
notes, to their simplicity, and I ask
you to listen too. I ask you to put it down,
the thing you picked up and closed, the thing

that is causing my face to sting over
and over again, until my vision
compromises itself, and all I see are
blurry flowers which I water with my
tears, and you, now and again,

behind them, punching through them,
just trying to reach me.